


A Simple Existence

by zetsuboufetish



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Gen, M/M, honda centric, the chaseshipping is really only if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:39:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsuboufetish/pseuds/zetsuboufetish
Summary: Being the most normal person you know has its drawbacks. Honda always did struggle with that.





	A Simple Existence

**Author's Note:**

> i always headcanon Honda as having depression, and it usually stems from self-worth issues. he usually deals with the "watching paint dry emotionally" feeling. this is just a little drabble to express that.

Honda Hiroto was not one for being a leader. He didn’t mind it so much, not often anyway. He was good at playing second in command to Jou’s point, or supporting character to Yugi’s lead. He was good at being a cheerleader. He always had been. Even then, he took Anzu’s lead, letting her shout the loudest for their slightly anxious leader and his sometimes cocky split personality. He faded into the background against Jou’s green jacket and Anzu’s pink vest.

Honda was an everyman, a jack of all trades with a hero complex. He was always the first to support a friend, unconscious or emotionally broken. That, he supposed, is one thing he could claim to his name. He carried many a pale body on his shoulders. He wondered sometimes if that was what made him worthwhile, his need to save those in trouble. He wasn’t sure.

Even with his family, he simply followed after them. He planned to work at his father’s factory after graduation—or, well, that was planned for him. In his room at home, he looked at the model guns on the shelf, the blue police academy brochure on his desk. Slowly, he dropped the brochure into the trash bin.

If asked, Honda would describe his life as ‘going with the flow,’ usually leading him into following after someone else. As he laid on his bed at night, he looked around at his walls, tan and bare. Idly, he wondered if he even lived here at all. Maybe he just existed.

His life felt grey most of the time, but sometimes, if he was lucky, it escalated to a pleasant cream color. He liked those moments, the ones where he felt almost like he was important. Soon after, it settled back into a soft grey. But at least for that moment, he was important.

After Duelist Kingdom, the grey seemed worse somehow. It felt like looking out of a window and watching the seasons shift while Honda stayed still. He etched his name into the brown wood of his school desk to make sure his name would be on something. The detention was worth it.

Over the summer, the sky felt even bluer, but his walls were still tan and bare. Honda found himself looking up at the sky often, shielding his eyes from the sun’s sharp light. It once caused him a collision with a particularly snarky man, a collision that Honda honestly hadn’t anticipated. He stammered out an apology, but the man was already gone. Blinking the sun from his eyes, Honda turned and saw red for the first time in ages. He blinked again and it was gone, the grey creeping in around it.

As Jou suffered in the dog suit partially the same color as Honda’s walls, Honda Hiroto’s eyes were for the man on the other side of the arena from Yugi. He was all red, dripping in it, from his bandana to his shirt. He was the brightest thing in the room, and Honda was captivated. Later, in his room, the tan walls stared back at him and he closed his eyes, still seeing the red against his eyelids.

For quite a few months and beyond, Otogi stayed a part of their group, and Honda’s eyes were always drawn to him first. He commanded attention, maybe even more than Kaiba. Somewhere, Honda wished for once in his life that he would be enough to attract his attention. That maybe grey was what this flashy man would want.

When Honda got home from Battle City, he sat on his bed. His sheets were white, the walls still tan. The blue brochure was long gone, and someone had packed up his model guns into a neat little brown box. His room was immaculate, a thin reminder of his simple existence. He laid back on his white bed and rubbed his eyes hard enough to form little pinpricks of light against his eyelids. Some were red, some were pink and gold and green. They were never brown. They were never grey.


End file.
